Let the River Run
by Mona
Summary: What happens when Manhattan's peaceful clan of gargoyles meet the most violent and warlike clan of gargoyles in existence? Toss in some Quarrymen, and trouble brews.
1. Two Worlds

"Let the River Run"

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Gargoyles. They are © Disney and Greg Weisman. Original characters are my property.

August 1, 1996

The Diary of Miles Gench, Ph.D.

Private. If you aren't me, I won't be held responsible for the consequences of reading. (This means you, Snoops!)

It's been such a long time since I've had a diary. I haven't kept one since I was a kid, and even then I wrote seldom. But I saw this little book in the Clearance bin at a store and I couldn't resist.

The origin of the gargoyle species is unknown. Far as I know, there have been no fossilized gargoyles found. They're an ancient race who live in clans. The clans are more or less autonomous, with a chosen leader to make decisions. This particular clan dates to the Roman Empire, though exact times have been lost. Originally, the gargoyles had only minimal contact with humans. But that changed with the fall of the Roman Empire.

Without Roman armies to protect the towns and cities, fierce tribes overran Europe, leaving trails of destruction. One village, Haidasburg, knew they were defenseless against the barbarians. Desperate, they approached a gargoyle clan in the nearby mountains and begged for help. The gargoyles knew they'd be vulnerable during the day – they didn't call the barbarians Vandals for nothing – so they appealed to the villagers for shelter. The humans agreed. That pact is the basis for this family – two separate species coming together in a mutual bid for survival. A beautiful symbiosis.

Both sides kept their promises. The bodies of slain Visigoths and Vandals littered the streets of Haidasburg. A few years passed, then a famine came. Rather than starve, the villagers decided to leave en masse. They traveled at night, so their gargoyle guardians could accompany them to their new home. So began the nomadic tradition. Whenever a land became bare or other inhabitants hostile, the Haidas learned to pack up and leave. This distinguishes them from other gargoyle clans: most stay in one place.

I was not born into this mixed clan of gargoyles and humans. I am simple Miles Gench, former calculus professor. I taught ungrateful kids in Ithaca. My last year of teaching, I had to do an introductory calculus– everytime I said 'pi', they'd throw a pie at me –usually in my face. I let that slide. Then when I got to Riemann sums, my students threw bits of flaming paper at me! That was the last straw. I turned in my resignation that very day.

I don't know why my students didn't respect me. I tried to be fair in my grading, and I tried to be interesting in class. And granted, not all my students were horrible. Some were eager to learn. That was what made my career worthwhile. I imagine those curious inquirers became doctors, mathematicians, and computer programmers. Anyway, a few of my fellow professors thought it'd be cool to take a hike in Canada – in the middle of March. They invited me in hopes of convincing me to return to the school. So off we went, making snowmen and throwing snowballs. Basically having a good time. I thought I saw a wolf in the snow got my camera to try to take a picture. I followed the tracks in the snow at a far enough distance. But it began to snow again. Hard. The tracks were covered, so I couldn't retrace my steps. I got hopelessly lost, trying to find my way back to the lodge. I finally blacked out.

When I woke up, I was in a living room. I remember it so well– hardwood floors, tapestries hanging on the stone walls, a fire roaring in the fireplace. I don't know why they didn't just kill me. I had awoken shortly before sunset, and they did try to hide the fact that gargoyles lived there. Long story short, I observed the humans of the complex. I knew it was no ordinary place immediately. I could tell they were a close-knit family. I wanted to join more than anything else. It took a lot of wheedling and coaxing on my part, but they finally agreed. I found out about the gargoyles, but I don't know why they expected me to be afraid. I was a little startled, but I guess it's the natural response.

Do I regret abandoning human civilization? No. My parents had died, and I had no family. I was single, and I'm rather plain in appearance. I'm balding, for one, so there was no wife and kids forthcoming. My colleagues probably think I'm dead or am dancing with Amelia Earhart on the face of the moon. I don't care. The Haidas are my family now. I'll describe some of them later. There's something I have to get down first.

Every family has a black sheep. I have some New York mobsters on my mother's side. Really. With the gargoyle species, likewise, the Haida clan is their black sheep. Historically, since it's been centuries since the Haida gargoyles encountered any more of their species, other clans scorned the Haidas. Probably thought they were too violent and barbaric, or that their adoption of human traditions was corrupting them. Yet, gargoyles dwindled during the Middle Ages. Clans fell apart or were killed off by humans. I ask, why are the Haidas alive while the other clans crumbled to dust?

The human Haidas relate to their gargoyle 'brothers and sisters' more than they relate to other humans. Even though they accept new technology, they prefer to live in the past. We have a couple of TVs and radios, but they're rarely on. Though Chinook, the second-in-command, believes that he and the rest of the humans should learn diplomacy in case they ever have to interact with the rest of the human race, they're simply more comfortable hiding from the rest of the world in these underdeveloped woods. What will ever happen to us if we are "discovered"? Luckily, not many people have reason to come by these woods at night, but fifty-some gargoyles and another fifty-some humans to six billion humans? I don't like the odds.

I'll write more later.


	2. Fight!

A human, clad in a business suit, stepped forward toward the front of the once-hotel that now served as the castle for the Haidas clan of Gargoyles. His eyes met those of a member of the clan, a human standing outside of the front gate, arms folded in front of him and legs braced at his side in a defiant defensive posture, as if he were a sentinel charged with watching over the gate behind him.

The Haidas's eyes met those of the intruder, and he scowled. "I'd advise you to leave our territory," he said. "Do so, and we will not pursue."

The human, a gargoyle hunter named Castaway, stared unflinchingly at the man in front of him, wondering all the while how much of the monsters inside the castle had rubbed off on him, unsure of whether the warlike figure in front of him could still honestly be called a man. "If you hand over the gargoyles, no one will get hurt."

"Why are you interested in them?" the man-monster asked.

"I have my reasons," retorted Castaway. "Who are you?"

"My name is Chinook," said the man-monster. In a show of his inhumanity, he dug into the pocket of his coat and took out a Colt .45 revolver, and he waved it threateningly in front of him. "I'm the second in command, and my superior is very unhappy. She wants you to leave. If you don't, well, don't say I didn't warn you."

Castaway threw his head back and laughed. "She! You're led by a…"

He almost said _woman_. "By a female?"

Castaway stopped laughing. A line of humans and gargoyles in full high tech body armor appeared behind Chinook, each one holding a weapon of some kind—pistols, swords, knives, axes, spears, warhammers, everything deadly fearsome.

Castaway turned to his Quarrymen. "Don't just stand there! Wipe them out!"

It was not the greatest tactical decision he ever made.

XXX

Five minutes of fighting, and then…

"Do you really intend to beat us, you old bat?" taunted one Quarryman, a lanky fellow with a mop of dark hair, named Paul Wisner.

The elderly gargoyle fighting him simply clutched his axe, closed his eyes, and muttered something.

Paul Wisner tried to move forward, but his feet refused to cooperate; they felt as though they were cemented to the ground. Looking around in a panic, he saw all of his nearby comrades similarly frozen in place, limbs motionless and faces aghast. Too late, he turned his attention to his opponent, and all he had the chance to see was the gargoyle's axe arcing toward his chest plate. The blade landed at the junction of two sheets of metal, splitting them neatly apart.

"Casting 'stop' is cheating, Pops!" yelled a tall, gaunt human youth from across the field.

Pops shook his head and turned back to the Quarryman. "Care to take back that 'old bat' comment?"

"Please," begged the Quarryman. "I'm sorry."

"I don't accept your apology," Pops replied. "You young folks are so rude." He raised his axe once again, and Paul Wisner hoped desperately that his scream would not be the last of his life.

XXX

"They just keep coming," said a gray gargoyle with sparkling blue eyes, backing toward the castle walls and clutching his broadsword as if his life depended on it.

"They don't know when to quit, Zuiker," said another gargoyle, this one with a darker brown complexion and auburn hair with sharp daggers tucked under his claws. "Let's teach them a lesson."

"Let's, Weisman." Zuiker raised his sword toward the sky. "Powers of opposites, join together in our hands, and strike down those who destroy us."

"Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice," Weisman continued. "From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire."

"But if it had to perish twice," Zuiker chanted. "I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice."

The Quarrymen looked at each other, confused.

Weisman and Zuiker's eyes glowed white. They said in unison, "Polarity."

A stream of pure ice flowed from Zuiker's sword. Simultaneously, flames shot from Weisman's daggers. The Quarrymen who stood still were encased in ice, while the ones trying to flee were roasted.

XXX

Castaway wanted to shout every swear word he could think of. He was surrounded by injured Quarrymen. The coppery smell of blood permeated the air. The gargoyles and their human allies were faster and stronger than he had anticipated. The ten or twenty opponents for which he had prepared had become thirty, then forty, then fifty. Only a desperate gambit could save his side from crushing defeat.

Castaway gritted his teeth and ran toward the stone castle.

Looking down at him from a castle balcony was a tall, slender female gargoyle in a long dress partly covered by chain mail, one claw on her hip, the other holding a large spear. She spoke to him—spoke to, not yelled at, her dignity and composure transcending the scene of carnage below—in a level, authoritative tone. "You're outmatched, human. You were given sufficient warning."

"You're the leader, aren't you?" asked Castaway. In the heat of battle, he forgot to laugh at her for being female.

"Why, yes, I am," she said.

She raised her spear and threw it at him. Castaway rolled to dodge, and the spear hit the ground a few feet away. It gave a green glow, and then the very ground began to shake.

An…earthquake! Castaway tried to regain his footing, but the ground shook too much. "What…are…you!"

XXX

Another Quarryman fared better than Castaway. He had managed to lasso one of the turrets and was scaling the wall. He looked at the face waving from one of the windows. "Professor Gench! Is that you?"

Miles Gench frowned. "Any of the awful students I taught? I can't tell under the hood."

The Quarryman remained his hood. "It's me. Scott LeBlanc?"

Miles shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"You flunked me!"

"I only flunked those who deserved it."

"My homework was always perfect."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Yes, your homework was too perfect. It consisted of photocopies of the answer key! Did you really think I was that stupid?" Miles overturned a bowl of something.

LeBlanc snickered. "What's this supposed to be?" He wiped some of the substance off his face and tasted it. "Mm. Beef stew."

Miles now held a glass box, which he dropped.

It shattered on LeBlanc's head. Sand covered his hair and got in his eyes. Then he became aware of a crawling sensation. If there was anything Scott LeBlanc hated more than gargoyles, it was insects.

"Bugs!" He lost his grip on his rope and fell two stories. "Bugs! Get 'em off me! Get 'em off!"

"That was tonight's dinner, you moron!" An apron-clad man said to Miles.

Miles looked sheepish. "Sorry, Chef."

"You better be! I worked all day on that stew, and such talent is wasted on the kids' ant farm!"

"It was a small sacrifice," Miles replied.

"No soup for you!"

XXX

Meanwhile, a Quarryman backed from slowly from a fat man wielding what looked like a machine gun. His battle armor was strong, but he doubted it could take punishment from an AK-47. "Don't shoot!" he insisted.

The man fired anyway.

The Quarryman expected a deafening volley of shots but instead got only a whoosh, and then some sort of clear liquid covered his steel armor. "A super soaker! You want to play water tag!" He raised his hammer, oblivious to the distinctive smell of kerosene.

A human woman toting an old-looking flame thrower joined the man. Her peculiar dress – a ballgown and pearls – made her a sight to behold as she squeezed the trigger on her weapon and sprayed fire, not so much at the Quarryman in front of her as at kerosene covering him.

Chinook came up behind the woman and touched her shoulder. "You were wonderful, Polaris."

Polaris sniffed and held up a gloved hand. The fabric was covered in bright red stains. "They ruined my favorite gloves."

"I'll buy you a dozen new pairs next time I'm in town," Chinook promised.

The man wielding the kerosene-filled water gun, Snoops, pointed toward the horizon. The Quarrymen still able to walk were fleeing. Two burly Quarrymen named George Brown and Peter Jones carried Castaway over his shoulder. Castaway screamed and writhed, practically foaming at the mouth.

Chinook holstered his revolver. "That takes care of that."

XXX

"How does it look?" Castaway asked.

"Not good," his medic replied. "We've got a lost arm, eight broken legs, fifty knocked out teeth, a near-scalping, a nervous breakdown, six broken arms, burns of various degrees, frostbite, two cases of broken ribs – one resulting in a hemopneumo, one ripped out eye, two lost ears, and too many stab wounds and bruises to count."

"And I've got a headache," piped up a Quarryman who only had cuts and bruises.

"If it weren't for our armor," continued the Medic. "More than half of us would be dead."

"I'll write the manufacturers," Castaway said sourly.

"Personally, I'd rather just go back to New York," said the Medic.

"I really hate to say this," commented another Quarryman. "But could Walt have sided with the gargoyles?"

"Perish the thought!" Castaway said. "We need to regain our strength. And come back at dawn."

"But even the humans fought like demons," argued the Medic. "I think…"

Castaway interrupted. "I don't pay you to think. Now shut up and let's go home."


End file.
